


Choices

by rei_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindfolds, Food Sex, M/M, Possessive Sex, Sensation Play, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-11
Updated: 2006-11-11
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c





	Choices

His eyes flick back to Sam's, and that's it. He's done. Sam's got that puppy-dog look going on, the one that makes women want to pet him, makes men want to throw their arm around his shoulder and buy him a drink, makes Dean want to do whatever stupid, crazy, _asinine_ thing Sam's suggesting. Fuck. 

"Fine," he sighs, rolling his eyes, and he's surprised when Sam's entire face lights up; he hadn't been expecting that, hadn't guessed that whatever it was, was such a big deal. It tugs a smile out of him, to see Sam that happy—Sam hasn't been sleeping lately, not well and not enough, been walking around with these tired eyes and moving slow, almost like his skin hurts to live inside of, but that smile, that somehow makes it all better. "Fine," he says again, and feels his pulse spike unexpectedly as he takes off his shirt.

It's like Sam can read his mind—maybe he can, who knows anymore—because Sam stands there for a moment, halfway across the crummy little motel room, and just looks at him. Dean looks back, chin tilted up in some semblance of pride and defiance, but he's said yes to this, to Sam, so the arrogance he’s projecting doesn't mean anything and they both know it. He’s Sam’s, and Sam’s his, and both of them know that Sam’s leading tonight, no matter how insolent Dean appears, because this, like this, it doesn’t happen very often. 

Sam smiles halfway, and drops his eyes for a moment, and Dean feels it again, that suddenly fast heartbeat, the way he, they, are playing this out, Sam in control but still somehow not. 

Playing. It seems so much more than that. 

Sam crosses the room and leans down, presses his lips against Dean's, and Dean leans up, opens his mouth, swipes his tongue against Sam's. It's calm and quiet, soothing more than anything else. Dean might be dwarfed by his brother, but it's _his_ tongue in Sam's mouth, _his_ hands splayed over Sam's hips, _his_ body that Sam's pressed up against. _His_ , and no one else’s. 

When Sam steps back, there's a question in his eyes, hopeful but hesitant, and there's really only one thing Dean can do. He breathes out, closes his eyes, and says, "All right. I'm ready." He doesn't need to see his brother to know what look Sam's wearing, and it's a good thing, too, because his eyes are covered a moment later by a strip of cloth, cotton, it feels like, and the blindfold is tied in a thief knot. 

Sam plants a row of kisses down Dean's jaw, and guides him to the bed. The mattress gives under his body, old and worn, but there aren't any lumps, so Dean stretches out, lays on his back, head on the pillow. 

"So, you gonna tell me what we're doing?" Dean asks, cocky tone despite the shivers he can feel inside. He can't see, if something came in the room it could catch them both off-guard, but he trusts Sam with his life and knows Sam's got his back. Sam's not blindfolded. It's just as much a trust issue as the handcuffs, a different kind, because he could reach up and take off the blindfold any time he wants, not that he's going to. It's just, he can. 

Sam doesn't say anything, and it takes Dean a moment to realise that Sam's still sitting on the bed next to him, fingertips tracing out whorl-lines of runes on the air above Dean's arm. Goosebumps start racing up and down Dean's arms, and it's as if he's out at night on the hunt, other senses coming alive to compensate for the loss of his sight. He can smell Sam, feel the heat radiating out from Sam's body, can almost taste the stale motel air and the promise of sex. 

"Sam?" Dean asks, and Sam leans forward, leans over him, the bed shifting. 

"Shhh," and then Sam's kissing him, soft and lazy. "Just try it," Sam murmurs, words against Dean's lips. "Let me do this, okay?" 

There's really only one answer he can give, but Sam's offering him a choice and that's more than pretty much everyone else does. It's the _choice_ that means so much to Dean, enough so that he wills his muscles to relax and says, "Yeah." 

Sam smiles against his neck, then nibbles a path down to Dean's collarbone. Sam stands up, and Dean can hear him moving, rustling around in plastic bags. Dean wants to ask how long Sam's been planning this, wants to know what's going on, but Sam wanted him, asked him, to be quiet, and so he lays there, eyes closed, feeling the blindfold tight around his head, knotted on the side so it's not caught between him and the pillow. 

The world is dark, but not asleep.

Sam sits down on the bed again, and then Dean feels a fingertip open his lips. His tongue darts out, tastes Sam, and then his taste buds explode with _richbitterdarksin_. "Chocolate?" he asks, when his mind starts working again, and even he can hear how bewildered he sounds. 

"Your other senses compensate for the loss of your sight," Sam replies, and Dean wants to roll his eyes. He knows that, has been thinking about that, and sometimes Sam can be so _obvious_ , but then the finger presses itself into Dean's mouth again, and it's chocolate, darker than he's ever tasted before, strong and overpowering. He sucks, tongue tracing the curve of Sam's finger and nail to get at every last drop, and he hears a moan from his brother, soft and low, and he smiles.

"Don't get cocky," Sam murmurs, and then Sam's thumb swipes Dean's lips, leaving a trail of something warm and sticky. Dean frowns, licks his lips tentatively, and then laughs. 

"You bought _honey_?" he asks, and licks his lips again. 

Sam moves, the mattress shifts but the springs don't creak, and then Sam's whispering in Dean's ear, the tone as rich as the chocolate, as sweet as the honey. "Don't worry," Sam says, and the sheer sense of Sam's voice makes goosebumps run up and down Dean's skin. "It won't go to waste." 

"That sounds like a promise," Dean says, most of the humour gone from his own voice, and Sam laughs, lays out another trail of honey straight from the bottle onto Dean's lips. 

"It is." 

The tip of the honey bottle, container, whatever, places a drop on Dean's neck. Dean's about to say something about Sam knowing full well where Dean's mouth is, but then one of Sam's giant hands tilts Dean's head and Sam's tongue licks up the sticky mess. 

Dean's hard, that's all it takes, that after the chocolate, but Sam keeps going, keeps placing more droplets on Dean's shoulders, chest, stomach, licking them all up like a cat chasing the last traces of milk. It was funny, sort of, at the beginning, food and blindfolds, how cliché, but now, being on this end of it, arching when Sam drops honey onto Dean's nipples and licks it off, nuzzles and nibbles it off, he can't complain.

Sam stops, leans back, and Dean can't help the pout that he knows is crossing his lips. The pout fades as minutes go by and Sam doesn't do anything else, anything new. Dean wants to ask what's going on but he doesn't, keeps quiet, lets his senses settle and spread outward.

Noises come first; he hears cars passing on the street outside, maybe it's raining or else the puddles from earlier are still there, tires rolling through them and splashing water over the asphalt. The drone of the television from the room next door filters in next, then the steady in-and-out rhythm of Sam's breaths. Without thinking, at a level deeper than the subconscious, Dean matches Sam's breathing, a constant pattern of rise and fall, connection. 

He's hard, cock trapped in his jeans, but there's a sense of peace to this stillness he hadn't thought was possible. 

At least, until Sam moves and Dean's breath hitches, startled. "So," Sam says, and Dean can hear the smile. "I can’t wait to get your jeans off." Dean freezes, and Sam moves on the bed, until Dean can feel Sam pressed against his side, one hand absently rubbing circles on Dean’s bare stomach. "Take your dick out, get you naked. You want me to stroke you, Dean? Take you in my hand and jerk you off slowly?" 

The hand on Dean’s stomach dips lower, thumb running under the edge of Dean’s jeans, long fingers sweeping over Dean’s skin. Sam’s mouth is right next to Dean’s ear, the whispered words a straight line to Dean’s cock. "Or do you want my mouth, Dean? Would you like me to swallow you down? Wanna fuck my mouth?"

Dean’s mouth is dry when Sam’s fingers unbutton his jeans, pull down the zipper, and he says, unsteady, "Is there an option for all of the above?"

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Sam says, and when Sam’s tongue traces Dean’s ear at the same time Sam’s palm presses down on Dean’s cock, Dean arches up, nerves electric. Every sensation is heightened, everything magnified, and when Sam moves away, backs off, Dean has to honestly try and figure out if he came. 

He hasn’t, if the achingly hard pressure he feels in his dick is to be trusted, something between relief and torture coursing through his body with the same intensity as his arousal.

"Right, that's taste and sound. Smell next, I think," Sam says. 

Dean gapes. 

"You can't be serious," Dean says, when he's found his voice. The words come out low and rough, the way he sounds if he's been sucking Sam's cock down his throat, and he feels the bed move under Sam's shudder, smiles a little in victory. 

"Yeah, you're right," Sam says, and that makes Dean's smile turn a little bit more suspicious. Sam never agrees to anything straight off, Dean always needs to talk his brother into things, talk or argue or fuck, and this, this is suspect. "I think we should skip smell for now and go straight on to touch," Sam goes on, and when Sam says 'touch,' his hand presses down on the bulge under Dean's jeans, presses and rubs a little. 

Dean exhales, says, "I'm all for touch. Just as long as you don't start thinking you're Susan Sarandon or something."

Sam laughs, a rumbling sound that fills the room, and then asks, coy, "You wouldn't like to see me in fishnets and heels?" 

Dean chokes on air as the picture of that crowds his mind. The hip-swing that stilettos give women, the way tights cling to skin and curves, the idea of Sam wearing, _fuck_. "That wasn't Janet, though," he says. "And Sam, dude, c'mon. We can Rocky Horror it up later. I thought we were in the middle of something."

"You _thought_ we were?" Sam asks, with that intent, focused, and mildly annoyed tone he gets sometimes, only ever directed at Dean. "Guess I'm not doing my job, then," and Sam's strips Dean of his jeans and boxers almost before Dean realises what's going on. 

The air in the room is cool against his skin, but he can feel Sam radiating heat, even from the foot of the bed. He listens as Sam moves, stands up, and hears clothes drop to the floor, hears a condom wrapper being opened, hears something, lube, being squirted on to Sam's hand. 

And then he feels Sam slide the condom on. On Dean. On _him_ , and of all the things he'd been expecting, this wasn't it. "Sam?" he asks, but then Sam's sliding his hand up and down Dean's cock and Dean can hear the slide of lube and latex, except the lube feels thick, too sticky. 

"Been waiting for this all day, you have _no_ fucking idea," Sam's murmuring, and then Sam's on the bed, arms and elbows and hands and feet, and Dean lets the dips and squeaks calm him as much as he can be calmed. 

Which isn't much, when, in the next moment, Sam's straddled above him.

Dean reaches up to take the blindfold off, because he has to see Sam, _has_ to, but Sam's hands circle his wrists, stop him. It's gentle, not restraining, but Dean tenses anyway. 

"Dean, please let me do this," Sam says quietly, not begging, not pleasing, but asking, his thumbs rubbing across the bones of Dean's wrists. Dean knows that he could say no, take the blindfold off, and Sam wouldn't stop him. 

Knowing it makes all the difference. 

He relaxes under Sam, moves his hands to Sam's waist, and smiles. "Yeah, Sammy. Yeah, go on, then." 

Sam laughs again, leans down and licks a slow, wet line across Dean's lips. And then he moves. 

It takes seconds and hours, minutes and eternities, and then Sam's tight and hot around him, muscles clenched tight, his whole body shaking. " _Dean_ ," he whispers, and Dean's fingers tighten on Sam's hips, digging in, and Dean knows that tomorrow, there'll be marks there, marks that fit _his_ fingers, marks that say that Sam's _his_. 

Sam moves up, then sinks down again, and Dean's hips thrust up to meet Sam. It's too much, feeling this without seeing it, and Dean never thought he'd be able to say that, but it's more intense, more _real_ , somehow, and fuck, he wants to see Sam, but he _gets_ it, he really does.

They settle in to a rhythm quickly, without, it seems, any effort at all. Dean's hips roll up as Sam's move down, and they meet somewhere in the middle every time. Dean's not sure if his hands are digging in to Sam's waist to help steady Sam as he rides Dean, or if they're there to keep Dean in this moment, this place. Sam's moving slow, hands pressed against Dean's chest for balance or maybe to keep Dean on his back, Dean's not sure which. 

With Sam on him, around him, making those breathy little keening noises, Dean's not sure of _anything_ except his body and Sam's, his cock in Sam's ass, the way everything feels so strong it almost hurts.

"I have to come," Dean mutters. "God, fuck, Sam, you have no idea how much I have to come right fucking now." 

Sam pauses on his next slide down, clenches his muscles around Dean, and while Dean’s cursing, he moves one of Dean’s hands from his waist to his dick. "Think I have a pretty good idea," Sam murmurs back, and then gasp-groans as Dean tightens his grip on Sam’s cock and jerks upwards. 

Dean can feel Sam straining above him, muscles shaking as he tries to go slow, tries to draw this out for as long as he can, but Dean's not having any of that. He can't fucking _wait_. "Sam, swear to God," he says, somehow, despite the scream he can feel building in his stomach, "if you don't hurry the fuck up, I'm gonna kick your ass."

Sam laughs— _laughs_ —and says, "All right, then." Dean's about ready to reach up and smack the smile he can hear off of Sam's face, but then Sam does something with his hips and starts moving faster, and Dean's so close to coming he can't feel his toes. 

When Sam starts talking, it's all Dean can do to piece together the words, to keep jerking his brother off. 

"Feel so good, Dean, _fuck_ , been wanting you in me all day, waiting for this, love it when you fuck me, want you, Dean," and when Sam says, " _Yours_ , Dean" in the hitching breath right before he comes, Dean's vision whites out again. 

Sam slumps down on Dean's chest, hot and heavy, and Dean murmurs, "Oof," before rolling Sam off of him and onto the bed. Sam's boneless and limp, but he fiddles with the knot of the blindfold and pulls it off. Dean blinks in the sudden light, and looks over at his brother, who's wearing one of the most self-satisfied smiles Dean's ever seen. 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Dean says, rolling his eyes and smiling back, before taking off the condom and tossing it in the general direction of the trash can. It’s only after the condom’s already landed somewhere on the floor that he realises what Sam used for lube, and he sits up, rolls Sam onto his stomach, and gently pushes one finger inside of his brother.

Sam lets out a groan, says, “Dean, what are you doing?” and it’s all Dean can do to sit back on his heels and stare at his brother’s hair. 

“You used honey for lube?” he asks, and Sam turns his head, looks over his shoulder at Dean, question written in those slitted cat’s eyes. 

“I told you it wasn’t going to waste,” he says, and then narrows his eyes as Dean smiles. “What?” Sam asks, and Dean’s smile grows. 

Sometimes, Dean honestly wonders what goes through his brother’s mind. “If you don’t get that cleaned up now, it’s going to be a bitch to get out in the morning,” he says, and when Sam looks even more puzzled, as if he’s about ready to say ‘ _I don’t care_ ,’ Dean grabs a pillow and pushes it under Sam’s hips, spreads his brother’s legs, and says, “Head down, Sam,” in a voice he knows sounds rough, demanding. 

Sam follows his order without thinking, immediate response, and Dean smiles against the curve of Sam’s ass, wondering again just how lucky he is to have this, to have his brother like this, and when—and who—he’s going to have to fight to keep Sam with him. 

Hopefully no one and nothing in the next few hours or so, because he’s got a brother to clean up and then they’re going to sleep, Sam curled around him like a big, lazy cat, all sleepy-eyed and satisfied, keeping Dean warm. 

But sleep won’t come for a while yet, not if Dean has anything to say about it. Dean opens Sam up with his fingers, curls his tongue inside of Sam, and when Sam bucks, says his name, Dean says, “Shut up, Sam, and enjoy it.” 

Sam shuts up, and Sam enjoys it.


End file.
